


Long Time Gone

by madcowmama



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, MIT Britt, brittana fic, time travel fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madcowmama/pseuds/madcowmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A timestream in which Brittany stays at MIT for 7 years. MIT Britt fics together, was a series, now a work that's easily downloadable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pocket Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany has something for Santana.

Brittany waits in the shadows as Dani exits. The unforgettable scent of Santana’s armpits wafts past Brittany’s nose. Maybe this was the exact right time.

Santana is still just on the other side of the door. Surprise.

“Brittany! What are y—“

“Hey. I brought you something.”

Brittany opens her hand. In her palm is a ladies’ pocket watch, all gold filigree. Pretty.

“Brittany?”

“It’s my Senior Thesis.”

“Senior?”

Brittany stifles a grin.

“Yeah, Senior.” She lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s beautiful.”

“When you want to be with me again, just open it, look in, and think of me.”

Santana gives her the scrunchy face.

Brittany glows.

“See… I have its mate. They want to be together. Forever. So when they’re activated, they go together.”

Brittany keeps herself from kissing Santana, not really wanting to smell the smells on her face.

“So,” says Brittany, “When you’re ready. Gotta go.”

“Wait,” says Santana, “How’d you get here?”

Brittany smiles. “Master’s Thesis.” She winks.

And blue light surrounds her body, and she’s gone.


	2. Riven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany makes a discovery.

Splitting strings was supposed to be impossible. Things that are meant to be together, things that are elemental, things that are fundamental, should never be riven. But because she’d felt it, known it, experienced it, searched it, sat with it, become it, Brittany stumbled on how.

It started as a thought experiment. She found when she quieted her body enough, for long enough, when she concentrated simply on her breath going in and out, in… and out…, she began to see individual strings. Sometimes there were weak points. Or… not weak exactly, more like… persuadable.

In the stillest, quietest moments, she found she could persuade those persuadable points by feeling herself deeply deeply split.

And because she was so deeply split, apart from her other half by happenstance, one day, so did one of the strings. It— they— allowed her to capture them. With her mind.

She told no one. She knew they’d all think she was cracked. She captured the split string ends— the strands— and nurtured them in matching pocket watches she found in a second hand store. They told her, or something told her, somehow she knew, that this was a one-time-only deal.

Open one of the watches, and that strand would spring across space and time to reunite with its mate. The pocket watch would become a ticket to ride. And having been apart, the strands would never be persuadable again. They belonged together.

Like Brittany and Santana.

Despite the distance, despite the time, despite the ache, they belonged together. And they would be together again.

In time.

 


	3. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somebody uses the pocket watch.

Out of the blue, the hairs on her arms stand on end.

_Blue_  washes across her and intensifies the blue of her eyes. This must be the moment when Santana’s decided on Brittany. 

Before, she’s only experienced the time ride from the inside, but outside, near another traveler’s entry, the  _blue_  shimmer of separated strands coming together stirs up wild feelings.

Brittany is reeling.

Seven years she’s been working toward this moment. Seven. Working and waiting for Fate to comply. High hopes. High hopes in the habit of repression. Working through inspiration and depression, all along she drove (on the rims) toward love, sometimes on the flimsiest shred of optimism.

_Anything is possible._

Seven years in Cambridge, seven years in her same little single with the Dark Side of the Moon mural and the tiny sink in the corner. Seven years in the cyclical rime and swelter of her sheltering home. Seven cold, cold winters.

Salt water freezes at minus two degrees Celsius. She’s read that [Hagga weeps jewels](https://archive.org/details/13clocks00jame). Colder than two below she’ll weep jewels, too, if she isn’t careful. It’s been a cold winter, a string of cold winters, and the cold keeps creeping inside.

She’s kept the crossings to a minimum. It’s cold, crossing through time, crossing through space, trying to survive the winter of her heart.

Walking through the cold has been risky. She hates weeping in the open. But she’s proven good at finding shortcuts. She’s found tunnels—staff only—connecting some of the buildings. She’s found time shortcuts, too, but it takes a long time to make them. Avoiding the cold in the tunnels, she hasn’t seen sun for days, but in this moment the  _blue_  light of strands reuniting swamps her room and dazzles her.

Seven years she’s worked toward reuniting with her other half.

She gravitates toward the  _blue_ , amped in anticipation, then stops, realizing she’s waited seven years, but she has no idea how long it’s been for Santana. It could have been seconds. It could have been years. She wonders if their sundering will matter. She should have thought this through. She should have left her watch with Brittany  _then_. As it is they’ll have to decide whether to go back to Santana’s time—and risk whatever might happen to the two Brittanys in the same time—or whether to move on. (And what about Santana  _now_? - And what about Brittany  _now_?) The last device she made took months to persuade the string into its strands. And time travel takes such a toll. They’ll need to rest for a while first. At least they can rest together.

They were always the best together. What if time apart has scarred them irrevocably? What if losing one another changed their fabrics? What if the warp and weft no longer thread?

It’s a common dread. Nothing’s for certain. That’s for sure.

_Blue_  sucks breath from Brittany. Gasping, now heaving, now weeping, the tingle of time radiates throughout her, yanking her emotions. She reaches for Santana’s hand, but her own burns. She yanks it away.

All at once, dark hair and dark eyes materialize before her.

_The wrong ones!_

The punch lays out Rachel Berry before Brittany has even registered who it is. It simply isn’t Santana. Nosy Rachel must have been fingering Santana’s things.

A flash of the aftermath of  _Landslide_ , the first time Rachel pried between them, that made cold burn her insides. Brittany frowns. It’s going to be months before she can make another device. Months with Rachel.

"You," she hisses.


	4. Synergy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brittany has to figure out how to solve the problem at hand.

**The punch hurts, but it’s tangible.**

**Rachel rouses herself. She’s in a tiny room with one black wall and a tiny sink in the corner. And looming over her, the most displeased Brittany S. Pierce she’s ever seen.**

**_Brittany punched her._ **

**It’s almost soothing, the bruise on her breastbone, amplifying that ache left in the wake of Finn’s wake. Brittany looks thinner, paler, colder than she remembers. Brittany looks harder, darker about the eyes.**

**"You ruined it," Brittany hisses.**

**Rachel is tired, so tired. She can’t quite encompass what’s going on here, but her system needs sleep. She is too afraid to sleep, but her eyes won’t stay open.**

**"I can’t… I need… Please don’t hit me again," she says, as she slumps back onto the floor.**

***

The One Time Trip Only (OTTO), the pocket watch that Rachel stole, okay used by accident, took years to discover and months to build. Finding a way to make a round-trip device has taken Brittany’s entire Master’s program. The Round Trip Once Only (RTOO) is how she delivered the OTTO to Santana. Now Brittany will have to make another one of each. If only there were a reusable device…

Another project for another degree.

Then there’s the challenge of Rachel. Rachel may make it impossible to have enough stillness to persuade the strings to part. And that’s ignoring how impossible the girl herself is.

_Focus. Focus. She’ll be out another few hours._

Much as she wants to leave her sprawled on the linoleum, Brittany, still strong after so long, scoops Rachel up onto the single bed, removes her shoes, and tucks her in. She needs the floor space for the next operation.

Something in that moment when Rachel, and not Santana, appeared before her has made her let go just a little. Get cold just a little. She can use that cold, that distance, for calculations, for simulations, to find shortcuts. She needs a shortcut to get Short Stuff back where she belongs.

She’s been driven by her need for Santana for so long. And in this timestream, Santana’s never come  _home_. It’s driven Brittany a little off the rails. The faculty are not perturbed. They feed off her leaps of intuition. They simply ensure her dorm room, her food plan, her tuition. It’s easier for them if she’s here, but never quite  _home_ , never quite in balance.

She doesn’t want to become a factory for time travel devices. She understands that’s inevitable; there’s so much lust for bending the universe without considering what it will do to the other ones. She just wants to get  _home_. Which is why the RTOO is so difficult to make. Because she has to want to return here and now, and it’s so hard to really want it. 

_Shortcuts. Short Stuff. Leaps of intuition._

She has to get Rachel back where she belongs, that’s a given. Worse than being riven from Santana is being together with Rachel, in any way, shape, or form.

There may be a reason Santana never sought her out before. What if… What if Santana never came home to her because she came home to an earlier her? It’s crazy, but there may be a way. Maybe Rachel could bring something into the mix to make a shortcut to making a… shortcut. She and Rachel working together? But, ugh, Rachel Berry. 

***

It’s distasteful to touch Rachel Berry, but she hasn’t had her arms around a girl in a very long time. Brittany props the rag-doll Rachel in her lap. Rachel snores softly into her ear. Brittany can’t help herself, she laughs. If Rachel wakes up like this… She bites her lips. 

Holding Rachel against her, Brittany begins to focus in on her breath. She holds the crazy dichotomy in her heart. All the anger she’s felt toward Rachel, and all the love and longing for Santana. She sinks deeper.

Embracing the crazy girl, the somewhat older, possibly much crazier girl begins to see strings. She sinks deeper.

The sound of Rachel’s breath threatens to bring her back to the surface too soon, but she refocuses her attention and sinks deeper. If she can pull this off—

Actually she’s going to need to persuade two strings to split into three parts, and one string to split in two. She’s only ever done one at a time before. 

_Because of course. Of course the plan needs refinement._

Of course, if the plan succeeds, it won’t make her happy. It will make _then_  Brittany happy.  _Now_  Brittany will just—  _now_  Brittany will just snuff out, maybe, or continue on, maybe. Theories abound. And maybe, if she does continue on, she’ll quit stalling, fly her ass to New York, and get her girl back. Enough waiting for her to come  _home_.

_Seven years._

How could she have made the intuitive leaps she has and never just get on a plane or a train and get Santana back? It’s so simple. So first, get this girl back where she belongs. Then get the pocket watch to  _then_ Santana. And the other one to  _then_  Brittany. And get home.

 _Refocus_.

She senses a link forming between her and Rachel, conscious and unconscious, introverted and extroverted, love-driven and self-driven, and she sees that they, in a way, are two ends of some kind of spectrum, and though they don’t belong together, the dynamic between them may propel them further than if they had tried alone.

***

**The pain in her chest wakes Rachel. She takes in a startled breath when a hand covers her mouth.**

**"Don’t talk," says Brittany. "We’re gonna make it right. Right now."**


	5. Empathy

Here’s the hard part— the only reason this process is this far along is love.

_Rachel. Brittany. Love? Um, No._

Brittany is sitting on the bed, wrapped around sleeping Rachel, holding her tightly against herself, sinking into the space where she could persuade strings apart, where she could capture the building blocks of her time travel devices, when the solution occurs to her.

_Without empathy, she’ll never be able to get Rachel back where she belongs._

In order to expedite persuading the strings apart, she has to contain and convey both their experiences of division and loss, not just her own.

See, at first the strings wouldn’t budge. They wouldn’t come close enough for Brittany to see clearly. They wouldn’t show their vulnerabilities. Then the warmth of the girl pressed against her began to wake her up.

Brittany hadn’t attended Finn’s funeral. She remembers that she’d been in the middle of— of something— super important— if only she could remember what it was… And she knew Santana would be there, and actually, Brittany simply couldn’t bear it. And actually, she had nothing to wear. And actually, it was Finn, and she couldn’t manage to care.

Finn had outed Santana. Finn had treated Santana like a whore. Pompous Finn, pouting Finn, punching Finn. Finn disgusted Brittany. It was easy to forget about Rachel loving him. Like, how could anyone after the way he’d acted?

_That was years ago._

But when Rachel’s warmth soaks in deeper than skin, a bit of the old frozen armor opens, allowing Brittany to sense the split bits in Rachel. Like half of her will never return.

Like Brittany’s other half will never return. Because she’s never come along for the ride.

 _That_  pain. That old old pain. The pain so familiar she’s almost stopped sensing it. She sinks into the cleft between herself and Santana and feels again being left behind, abandoned, ignored. And through that fissure she begins to sense Rachel’s loss. Rachel. Abrasive, sometimes abusive Rachel, so intently focused on her own pursuits that she only seems to regard others as impediments or facilitators, Rachel who brings out the meanest streak in Brittany, fucking Rachel.

_Who lost Finn._

Brittany cringes away from Rachel’s pain. Who can empathize with someone who has treated her with disdain, like a servant, as if she’s stupid? Who can empathize with someone who’s used her? (Although certainly that goes both ways— they used each other.) It’s a good thing Rachel’s sleeping.  _Her_  resistance would make this boundary completely impassible. But Rachel, despite her irritating and self-serving nature, is human. And Finn, despite his appalling behavior and his blind narcissism, was human. And they loved each other. And they lost each other. Forever.

There may be a rift between Brittany and Santana, but there is a chasm between Rachel and Finn. It’s a canyon, too wide to connect with a gondola.

Brittany sinks into it. Feels the loss. Feels the love. Feels the connection. She sinks deeper.

And as Brittany subsumes the split inside Rachel and experiences her own again, wide open, without guarding herself from the pain, the strings flock closer, become apparent, and, sympathetic with her — can a one-dimensional particle be sympathetic? — show her their pain, too. They reveal their weak points. They allow her to persuade them to part, just for a little while, not forever.

Only enough for one round trip.

So she resolves to make it work, nevermind  _she’ll_  be extinguished. She’ll make it work for  _them_. Maybe all of them.

Rachel rouses as Brittany closes the containers around the strands. Brittany catches her eyes and gazes into them. She places a finger across Rachel’s lips. 

"Now you can’t talk, okay, because you’ll scare off the tiny unicorns and then we can’t get you back. Understand?"

Rachel almost shakes, then nods her head. Brittany removes her finger from Rachel’s mouth.

"Brit—"

"Shhh! Okay. You’ll have to wrap yourself around me as tight as you can and hold on like quarks in a hadron."

Rachel closes her mouth and gazes back. They sink into each other for several moments. Brittany’s mind protests, but her heart connects, and as her heart connects, her mind softens enough around Rachel to revise its position. Brittany sees love in Rachel. Brittany senses love in Rachel. There is still love in Rachel. For a moment, Brittany—  _loves_ — Rachel. And Rachel— is  _still_.

It has to be precise. They both have to imagine fully the moment Rachel opens the pocket watch, so they can return just  _then_  and no earlier. So they build the story together, so they can recite it together, in unison, flawlessly. They have to break it down, into moments, into instants, to retrieve the exact pinpoint, to codify it, to be absolutely clear.

Now Rachel holds on, her warmth enveloping Brittany, seeping down into her cold cold heart and melting that rock to its core. Brittany needs all her capacity for love to complete this mission. Love for Rachel, love for Santana, love for herself,  _then_. And, in a way,  _now_. She softens from the inside out, senses Rachel softening too, finds her humanity, finds her understanding of loss, and loves, just for these moments,  _loves_  Rachel. Brittany gives the signal to start.

They recite together, focusing on the point, the exact point in time and space, where Rachel was when she made the time trip. And slowly Brittany opens the container.

It works a bit like a rubber band stretched between nails in a grid. Their imagination stretches the band to the point in time and space they are pinpointing, then after a short amount of time, the band snaps them, well, the idea is just Brittany, back to the origin point. Nobody’s ever made a non-symmetrical time trip before, so really it’s all theoretical.

The  _blue_  surrounds them, Rachel molding her body around Brittany’s, and they both chill through. They have to maintain focus. Reciting together the story they’ve built, they pinpoint themselves into  _then_  and land, cold and exhausted, in a heap, in Santana’s room.

For a little while, Brittany can fight off the rest she’ll need to recover, but she knows Rachel will fall asleep again in a moment or two.

She rifles Rachel’s clothing for her phone. She takes Rachel by the chin.

"Rachel Berry, I have one last thing to say to you. Call Quinn," Brittany enunciates. She taps in a text:  _Come to New York_. She hits Send.

Then she finds her favorite color lipstick and leaves a message on the mirror for Santana.

_"Baby, come home. —B."_

Time becomes elastic,  _blue_  surrounds her, and Brittany is gone.

 


	6. An Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinntana before Brittany's return.

An Experiment

It was easy at first, purely physical, two hot girls with strong personalities, a little drunk, okay, a lot drunk, one experimenting, the other demonstrating mastery. A wedding. Both of their main squeezes unavailable.

What the hell is it with weddings, anyway? The alcohol, old friends, new and old pairings, a hotel? There was a lot of fucking that night. But Santana and Quinn knew it was just a comfort thing, just a convenience thing, just a one-time thing.

And it was nice. Nice enough for a one-time thing to become a two-time thing. Nice enough for them to get together every so often in New Haven. (Never in New York, never in the apartment Santana shared with Rachel. That would be too much.)

Then, when Brittany didn’t show to Finn’s funeral, and Rachel got sucked into her fairy tale, the comfort of meeting with Quinn just seemed to make sense. Sure, Santana dated around, and Quinn said she did, but the way they could touch each other and breathe easier, feel somehow safer, that was a kind of love, wasn’t it?

Santana tried to trace what happened. When three weeks had gone by without contact with Brittany, then three months, the part of Santana that was always listening for Brittany’s ringtone took a seat in the back of her mind, and Quinn’s number went to the top of her favorites list.

After graduation, Quinn’s New York move just made their thing more public, more inevitable. Santana thoroughly enjoyed Rachel’s face going pale green when they finally admitted they were dating. But something about being open about it maybe made things more volatile between them, more friable. A little pressure, and they crumbled. They broke up within the month.

And the loss, even of this casual, accidental thing, whatever it was, hit the hurt part of her heart and called up all the other losses.

Called up the big loss. The biggest. The one that was her fault. She stopped herself from making the first call she wanted to make. She didn’t even know if Brittany had the same number. Britt would know the exact feeling without her having to say anything. On the other hand, Brittany would know that feeling because of her, and who needs to go there, right? So she didn’t call.

Rachel just rolled her eyes. Quinn had already called her. And Kurt— well, Santana knew what Kurt thought. He’d told her to go to Boston years before. She wasn’t going to get any sympathy there.

Getting with another girl soothed the aches eventually (while creating new ones), and when that was over, Quinn was ready for another go.

They’d gone through this cycle several times before Santana decided to break it and asked Quinn to move in with her. 

Quinn accepted.

And they really tried to make domesticity work, making breakfasts for each other, making dinners for each other, compromising on decorating decisions. All of which was fun and exciting for a while…

But then Santana would catch a whiff of vanilla outside a bakery, in a store, on the subway— and wonder what domesticity would be like—

—with Brittany.

Sex with Quinn got less and less frequent, got less and less interesting, but Santana didn’t have the drive toward other girls, because it was clear, not just any girl would do.

She wondered if Quinn registered the guilt, if she could see it or feel it or smell it. Santana could. It tasted of rust. It smelled of mildew. It felt like slushy running down inside her sweater. And she was sure her face had changed color.

Whether or not Quinn had noticed the change, Santana noticed a change in her. She started leaving texts about going over to Rachel’s.

And not coming home.

Or coming home drunk.

When you worry about a person making it home, that’s a kind of love, isn’t it?

Santana covered up the smell of guilt with a dab of vanilla behind each ear.

"Mmm… You smell like Brittany used to," murmured Quinn one morning as she returned from one of her nights out.

Quinn smelled of wine, Santana noticed, but she smiled and pecked her cheek.

Quinn continued toward their bedroom, then stopped suddenly. She turned around, gaping. She tilted her head, then shook it abruptly, turned and went on her way.

That slushy sensation rushed down her chest.

What the hell was she doing?

What the hell were they doing?

Santana followed Quinn and sat beside her on the bed.

"I have two weeks before rehearsals start up, and then I’ll barely see you for like six weeks. Are we disintegrating? Can we try again?"

Quinn just looked at her.

Then looked at her feet.

"Yeah," she said, "okay."

And the trying tried Santana. It tried them both. Like first-year acting students so much just seemed forced, hollow. Quinn made them lunches every morning. Santana poured wine every evening. Quinn stayed home, stayed off the phone with Rachel. Santana left the vanilla in the subway. That’s a kind of love, isn’t it?

It got better. Some.

But Brittany’s reappearance cut through it like so many cobwebs. 

Quinn was shelter, but Brittany was  _home_.


	7. Something's Gotta Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences. Not all of them are unfortunate.

What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

What happens?

***

This will be Brittany’s most courageous act.

Okay, maybe risking snuffing herself in order to try to help her friends _then_  was her most courageous act. But since she and her entire timestream  _haven’t_  been dismantled by her temporal meddling, she needs to complete her own circle.

The fact that she did, in fact, return to her timestream confirms what she has suspected for some time now. Timestreams spin off from one another. When a crucial decision is made, the possible timestreams containing that decision spin off from the possible timestreams that do not.

Timestreams don’t stop. Once a potential timestream has become a reality, it continues. This means that nudging Quinn and Rachel together _then_  won’t improve things for them  _her_ _e, now_. It means that urging Santana to visit her in her first year at MIT won’t magically get them together  _here or_ _now_.

But the possibility of their getting together  _here and_ _now_ still exists. She has to make that decision. Then Santana will have to make a decision.

When a door closes, perhaps somewhere a window opens. 

***

**Part I… 2013.**

It’ll require a major change, but Quinn is ready for it. Drama has become so very tiresome.

Most of her credits would work toward Comparative Literature, so… In a way, she’d like to leave Yale behind, but it’s a known environment, and there’s a certain amount of comfort she gets here. Besides, she’s upped her meds twice, and she’s simply getting a bit more practical about decisions.

She’s teetering on the edge when the least expected text arrives.

Maybe an impromptu break would take the ache down a notch. Maybe a change of scenery could make the stage seem less strange. Maybe. Just maybe. But Rachel?

***

Santana’s phone chimes a text.

_—Can I call now?_

_—K_ , she replies, and the ring she hasn’t heard for months is almost immediate.

"What do you need, Quinn?"

"I got a text from Rachel saying  _Come to New York_.”

"Okaaay…"

"I’m at Grand Central."

"And you called me…?"

"She’s not answering. I need directions."

"You didn’t need all that much direction when we last saw each other.”

"Fuck off."

"Well, you’re in luck. I’m surprising Brittany at MIT this weekend. You can have my room. If you need it. Rachel was passed out on the floor in there last I saw her."

"And you left her?"

"Okay, I did take her to her room before I left."

***

Rachel rouses herself. It takes her several moments to recollect where she is. Where she’s been.  _When_  she’s been. She has no idea how she got to her bed. There are seventeen texts on her phone. One from Santana — _Away for a few days, see ya—_ , and the rest…

From Quinn.

_—Hey, what’s up?_

_—RU OK?_

_—Call me._

_—Rachel?_

_—Rachel, you can’t do this. Please at least text me._

And so on and so on, until:

_—I’m on the next train._

Rachel scrolls to the top, finds the message she didn’t send, and pieces begin to snap together.

 _Brittany_.

The knock at the door brings her back to the present, and she’s there before she has a chance to think.

Through the peephole she confirms it’s Quinn. It  _is_  Quinn.

She opens the door, and they look in each other’s eyes. They are still.

And then they are moving together, the inevitable embrace. No warning shots fired, they clasp each other tightly, no clapping, not frightened, just close, full body contact.

Quinn’s body softens. Her cheek pressed to Rachel’s spreads relief through her belly and to her extremities. The stress, so familiar she’s stopped noticing it, dissipates. Rachel notices and at last invites her in.

Rachel, for her part, is still pretty shocky. Partly on automatic pilot, she offers beverages and invites Quinn to sit. Neither seems able to let go the other’s hand. Both have shiny eyes. There are no words. For once.

***

Quinn shifts her weight on the couch.

They still have not yet let go of each other’s hands. Still they are gazing into each other’s eyes. Then they are still.

"It’s been such a long, long time," Rachel manages.

"I kept waiting. For you to come to me,” admits Quinn.

"We’re still friends though, right?"

“Right.” Quinn looks away, becoming aware that her hand is… sweating.

***

They’re on their second glass of wine, and still few words have passed between them. Nothings, politenesses, social grease.

Quinn needs to be brave.

"I— I’m thinking of quitting Drama," she says, and it takes her a moment to recognize her own double meaning.

Rachel nods, a hundred futures going up in smoke. Some futures they are acting together. Some they…aren’t acting at all, but they are together.

"I’m tired of lying."

Rachel tips her head to the side, a question in her eyes.

 _(Quinn, take heart_.)

"Rachel, I—" she swallows. "Have you ever thought about— me?"

***

Rachel and Quinn lapse again into silence, their gaze unbroken, their hands still clasped, still. The memory of the time trips hits Rachel all at once with almost physical force. Her hand turns clammy. Her face acquires a fine sheen. The reason she’s here, the reason Quinn’s here, is Brittany. Brittany who reached into her heart while she was sleeping and pulled out so much pain, so much love, and examined it all, felt it all, knew her, all of her, in a way nobody ever has before.

Brittany knew.

_(Rachel, be brave. You are powerful. You are in charge of your life. It’s been such a long, long time.)_

She leans her forehead against Quinn’s.

“To be honest,” she says, “Yes. Yes I have. I do.”

***

**Part II… 2020.**

Deep in her browser, Brittany uses the time between Boston and New York to track Santana. It’s been seven years. Seven years of avoidance, seven years of waiting, seven years trying to take a shortcut and ending up taking a long, long way.

It’s so easy to get distracted when subverting time.

_(Ha. Found her.)_

It’ll take another hour and thirteen minutes to reach Penn Station. The noise, the motion, the flow of people inside and places outside make it nearly impossible to sink in, to replenish her own flow. But she has to try.

This will be her most courageous act.

Going to Santana now, after all this time, requires courage, yes, and contrition, and empathy.

It requires love.

Love was never lacking. Touch, proximity, nonverbal communication was. They were always the best together. Like together together, in contact. Perseverance was lacking, in a way, lacking between the two of them, but, meantime, they’ve both learned a lot about standing on their own feet.

Santana used to be the immovable object. Stubborn, stilted sometimes, stuck seeking the easy path, Santana required push after push to gain enough momentum to launch. Brittany, once the irresistible force, provided push after push, then, catapulted by her Santana-planted belief in her own brilliance, launched herself.

And then… remained in orbit.

Until the orbit decayed, and burning, she fell. She is falling yet. She prays she will fall into Santana’s lap and stay there. But what of Santana? Seven years is a long time. She’s probably attached to someone. She’d be crazy not to. She could take her pick. If she wanted to.

Enough.

Enough of that kind of thinking, which Brittany knows, propagates itself into action. Or lack of action.

Today is a day for action. Today Brittany is being proactive. Today she has made a decision. Because of loving Rachel, for that moment, the chill in her heart subsided long enough that her love for Santana, long quashed, has surfaced, and now burns.

***

Quinn packed Santana the world’s best roast beef sandwich this morning. It’s maybe more bread than she should be eating, but it’s delicious, and certainly she can add in an extra hour of spinning tonight. It’s lovely to get these tokens of love from her lover, especially since really it’s Quinn who needs someone to organize her. When Santana is in performance, she can provide that support, but when she’s in rehearsals, it’s all she can do to get up every morning.

It’s been a strange six months, living with a lover, but now, Santana feels strangely safer than she has in a long time. Than she has since…

Than she has since Brittany.

That was so long ago. And they were so young. Surely she’s married by now. Surely she has children. Sometimes Santana wants so much just to call her, but surely she’s changed her number after all this time. Brittany was simply the best. They were always the best together.

***

Brittany shows up just as rehearsal is wrapping. She hangs in the shadows. Quinn shows up too, and Brittany watches as Santana greets her with kisses.

Brittany begins to freeze, to fade away.

But Santana notices the movement in the back and sees her. In seconds, Santana seizes her. Quinn might be having a seizure.

_(It was always them. Quinn has never, ever had a chance with Brittany around. Now it’s just a matter of the details, the timing. Fuck.)_

***

Santana’s world tilts when she catches sight of Brittany. She shifts her gaze between Quinn and Brittany, unable to breathe for a moment, then recovers and wraps her arms around Brittany.

Brittany still can’t breathe. Her mouth opens and closes two or three times before Santana loosens her grip a little.

"Hi," says Santana.

"Hey," says Britt.

Quinn is counting to ten, to twenty, before she says anything.

_(First you breathe. It’s not fair, it’s just not fair, it isn’t fair.)_

"Brittany!" she says at last, trying to smile.

"I— we—" Santana trails off.

"I’m too late," Brittany barely whispers.

"Never," Santana breathes.

Ice floods Quinn’s nervous system.

"I— you—," stammers Quinn, then she gathers herself and throws out, "Why don’t you two get some dinner, and I’ll meet you at home?"

***

What do you say to the love of your life when you haven’t seen her in seven years?

_(Bravery, Brittany. Time to take heart.)_

"Can we just get a slice and take a walk?"

_(That’s not it.)_

They get a slice and start walking. What they need to be doing is talking, but neither of them knows how to break the ice.

Brittany finishes her slice, sucks the grease off her fingers, and takes a deep breath. It is decided. She catches Santana’s hand and looks long into her eyes.

"I— just want you," she says at last.

It isn’t all she wants to say, but having been on the other side of this conversation, she knows it says a lot.

"Britt-Britt, are you crying?"

Brittany nods.

"It’s been a long, long time."

"I know," Brittany croaks. "I kept waiting. Waiting for you to come to me."

***

Santana gets Quinn’s text: — _Going to Rachel’s_.

"I’m getting chilly, and I have to get out of these shoes. Let’s go home."

"Quinn—?"

"At Rachel’s. Where she always goes when she’s mad at me."

Santana takes Brittany’s pinkie in hers and leads the way.

***

The dam is breaking. Inside, Brittany is a mess of swamped debris, churning. Both of them are people she loves. She has to tip her face to the ceiling to detain her tears.

"I do love you, you know I do, but I love her too," echoes in Brittany’s ears.

"Does she know that?"

"I think so."

"I’ll get the first train in the morning."

"Britt—"

"I’ve spent every moment of all this time trying to get back to you, trying to get you to come back to me, and I should have just gone to you. I’ve been wandering the sewers all this time. When I should have just come home to you." The words roll out, and Brittany’s hands rise to her lips as if she could stuff them back in.

It’s Santana’s turn to tip her head to the ceiling.

It’s Santana’s turn to take heart.

Both of them are people she loves.

***

Santana pulls Brittany into her arms. Brittany ends up half in her lap. All of her muscles seem to sigh at once. They laugh. They were always the best together.

For Santana, holding Brittany feels like a ten-ton boulder rolling down a mountain. It smashes through anything in its path, including five-hundred-year-old trees, homes, cars, lives. Inevitable. Inexorable. Insurmountable.

And so comfortable.

Something’s gotta give.

She doesn’t want to hurt Quinn. But that too is inevitable. It was, even if Brittany hadn’t shown up. Their domesticity together is a joke, fraught with tension, as if they both vibrate on frequencies that are just somehow too high and discordant. The sex is lovely, but there’s all the time in between the sex. They are both high-stress, high-maintenance people, and it takes a real effort just to be together. Whereas Brittany… Brittany feels like a down-lined nest, even after all this time. Almost as if no time at all had passed. It is easy to take care of Brittany. It is easy to let Brittany take care of her.

Santana squeezes her arms around Brittany and presses into her.

“You know, I have always loved you the most.”

***

It might be the touch that tips the balance. The tips of Brittany’s fingers graze Santana’s knee. And in that moment, relief floods through both of them audibly. Santana’s eyes go wide, and Brittany’s go narrow. She’s warm, suddenly, to the marrow. Her brow unfurrows, her jaw releases, her cheeks have fewer creases, her mouth no longer pouts but slowly buds into a nascent smile. Their eyes meet. Color rises, they slide their feet closer, and Santana brings her fingers closer still, until their fingers interweave. Brittany knows she ought to leave, but she’s swamped with love she’s refused to feel for seven long, long years.

The fear that’s been clamped around her takes a powder, letting Santana in.

Santana has guarded herself so securely for so long that she’s warded off her open heart and now— she’s walking toward a freight train. She means to take a few steps to the side so she’ll be safe. But today her feet are rooted to the track. Today she must hit it head on.

_(God, she has missed this girl.)_

_(And for her part, so has Brittany.)_

Brittany takes Santana’s hand and presses it into her own breastbone.

“Santana Lopez, I know you’re involved with Quinn, but I love you. I want to be with you. If not today, then someday, I want to be yours. Someday, do you want to be mine?”

Santana sinks into Brittany’s eyes for several moments. The warmth she finds there softens her. She squeezes Brittany’s hand, brings it to her lips.

“I do.”

***

**Part III… 2020.**

Quinn usually walks, but tonight she’s taking a cab. Her knees are weak. A wave of nausea hits her hard, but she keeps it down. She’ll get home, have a glass of wine, order some takeout, and watch some TV. And if she can manage to calm down a bit, she’ll consider her options.

It wasn’t supposed to last.

It was a pairing of convenience.

That’s what they’ve told each other, on and off, for years—what they’ve still been telling each other since Quinn moved in.  _You_ _can’t always get what you want._  It’s become a joke between them, but today… Today it’s not funny.

Maybe now is not the time to be alone.

Maybe…

Just maybe.

***

The TV is boring, the food is bland, and the wine, in  _her_  mouth anyway, has gone to vinegar.

Quinn’s always known her lover loves another. She’s always known she was a case of  _love the one you’re with_. And there’s nothing particularly easy about being Santana’s lover. It’s just that it’s been such a long, long time.

The possibility of Santana and Brittany reuniting had receded.

But with Brittany here, it’s inevitable.

Much as she doesn’t want to be alone, Quinn (kind of) does want them together. At some point. But not now.

Now is not a good time to be alone.

She pulls out her phone.

 _—Brittany’s here_.

_—Do you want to come over?_

_—Really don’t want to be alone._

_—Come over then._

Then Quinn sends one to Santana:

_—Going to Rachel’s._

***

Rachel greets Quinn with a glass of her favorite Merlot, a cheerleader hug, and a kiss on the cheek.

“Rachel, it’s me. Quit the fake stuff.”

“Fake?”

“Don’t razzle-dazzle me. It’s too much.”

“Tell me what you need. Shoulder to cry on, place to stay, someone to drink with…?”

“Just shut up, Rachel, and pour yourself a glass.”

***

They’re on their third glass of wine, and few words have passed between them. Nothings, politenesses, social grease, a few complaints about Brittany’s sudden appearance and Santana’s reaction to it.

"Sometimes, I just want to punch her," Quinn’s words are slightly mushy.

"Why punch, when you’re a genius slapper?" counters Rachel.

Quinn smiles for the first time all night.

"It’s true, I am."

"I know, I remember."

Quinn puts down her glass.

"I remember you."

Rachel smiles, this time. They look in each other’s eyes for several moments.

Quinn shifts her weight on the couch.

She needs to be brave.

Rachel senses her tension.

"It’s been such a long, long time," Rachel prompts.

Quinn considers, presses her lips together, takes a breath. The decision is made.

"I kept waiting. For you to come to me,” says Quinn.

There are several moments of silence. Quinn forgets to breathe.

“ _I_  kept waiting. For  _you_  to come to  _me_ ,” admits Rachel.

This is suddenly a different conversation than what Quinn had imagined it would be.

"Can this count? Now? After all this time? Does this count?" she says.

"It does," says Rachel.

"I don’t want to settle for someone. I don’t want to be settled for. I don’t want to be someone’s (kind of) lover. Don’t I deserve to be someone’s one-and-only?" murmurs Quinn.

Rachel puts down her glass.

"You do."

"Do you think I could be yours?"

Rachel considers, then decides.

"I do."

 


	8. Pocket Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana visits Brittany at MIT.

Yup, for sure everything has changed.

Her Louisville ID lets her in. She knew she’d kept it for a reason.

It’s a single, thank heaven, no roommates for once, with a single bed, but they can deal with that. There’s a sink in the corner by the door, and covering the entire north wall, there’s a mural of the album cover of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon (something she recognizes because her dad had it hung, in a frame, in the closet of his study). It’s signed BW and dated thirty-some years ago. Not even the custodians had had the heart to paint over it.

The only thing that says “Brittany” in this room is the picture of the two of them on the shelf next to the bed.

She finds a corner for her rolling case, then starts to work on Brittany’s desk. Actually, she doesn’t need to pull everything out. Brittany’s class schedule is sitting on top, right in the middle of the calendar blotter. Today’s date shows, in bright crayon, that her physics presentation is now. Santana looks up its location. There’s enough time.

Santana finds it hilarious that she passes through MIT’s so-called security buildings with nothing more than this form-fitting green striped dress, spike heels, and a smile.

Brittany looks up from the pit of the lecture hall when she feels the change, maybe a change in temperature, maybe a change in barometric pressure, maybe a change in smell, but suddenly she feels more at home than she has in a month. She lays down her notes, takes a breath, and finishes extempore. The entire tone of the room changes during her summation.

It’s as if suddenly she’s making sense to the professor and the other students. They sit up, and the ambient noise drops considerably.

She answers questions for ten minutes, three from the freckled girl who never talks, before she actually catches sight of Santana.

When class is dismissed, Brittany shucks her chill and runs, taking stairs three at a time. Santana waves off her flying embrace, saying, “You’ll break my heels,” but she folds Brittany into herself, tucks her chin into Brittany’s neck, and wraps her arms tightly around her.

Brittany picks up Santana’s legs and wraps them around her, cradling her in both hands. The remaining students file out of the lecture hall around them, acting as if they don’t notice.

Santana takes Brittany’s face in her hands, looks in her eyes, and says, “I will always love you the most, Brittany Susan Pierce. Will you be my girlfriend? Again? Please?”

Brittany answers silently, applying the inner surfaces of her lips to those of Santana’s.

Strong as she is, Brittany’s arms are beginning to fatigue, so she slides Santana down so she can stand again, and pulls away for a moment, coloring, and whispering, “Proudly so.”


End file.
